


Born to Die

by nonsensicatty



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur is Prince Charming, Druids once ruled the earth but are pretty much all dead, F/F, F/M, Future but still kinda medieval, Gwen is a babe, I've been trying to write this fic since 2013, Knights are now Courtiers, LOTS of violence, M/M, Merlin's a badass mage/assassian/theif, Morgana and Mordred are a thing, Morgana is still kinda twisted but her love for Merlin is undying so she's evil with a good cause, Slow Burn, Sorcerers are now Mages, a lot of lore, also this is set in a future where sexual orientations are common and accepted, but eventual smut and graphic sex, but there's no creepy age difference so it's okay, don't be shocked when Uther doesn't care who his son is hooking up with, don't know yet, hopefully a happy ending, lots of magic, only kilgharrah but he speaks in riddles, so no one is going to comment on anyone's relationship type or status, so we love her, strap in if you dare to read this, technically a reincarnation fic but neither of them know it, this will eventually be rated explicit, title sucks but I won't change it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:41:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23530087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonsensicatty/pseuds/nonsensicatty
Summary: Kamaelot is at war. Mages are all but extinct and their fight for survival threatens to tear the kingdom apart.Arthur's birthright is their eradication. He is destined to slay the dreaded Emrys, leader of the Mage Rebellion, and restore peace to his father's districts. But when a mysterious mage spares his life and reveals a plot to kill him, Arthur must hire a royal mercenary, Merlin, to uncover the truth. Though he is shown far more than he ever imagined -- a people oppressed, an ancient empire, a tyrant in power, a lover in his sworn enemy, and a lifetime of lies. Can his destiny be challenged? Can his kingdom be saved?Latest Chapter Summary:“Heard it got away. Alive,” Elyan added, as if that detail were important to note.Arthur knew it was when his throat tightened hotly around his response, “That’s correct.”"…And, you got away, too. Like that,” he nodded over Arthur’s general appearance, catching his eye. Elyan had always been a man of few words, especially since the death of his father, but the few he did say had a way of speaking volumes. Arthur had the odd sense there wasn’t enough space between them for the weight of the words that came next, “That’s weird, isn’t it?"
Relationships: Gwaine/Percival (Merlin), Gwen/Lancelot (Merlin), Lots of previous relationships between multiple characters, Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Mordred & Morgana (Merlin), but those are all the important ones
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	1. The Best Laid Schemes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mage.
> 
> Great and fearsome, too. Since the first Culling, few mages even lived who were capable of preforming true magic. Arthur knew this. He helped oversee their eradication, no extermination. He was charged with their extinction. Those who remained from his grandfather’s reign could only hope to throw and bend petty energies to their wills – barely parlor tricks compared to those tales of the Old Ages. The scars that marked the very earth a testament to their might and prowess. One that had long been lost.
> 
> But magefire…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hint: This chapter can be best enjoyed listening to any song from Daniel Pemberton's _King Arthur Legend of The Sword Original Motion Picture Soundtrack_ or some vocals from Epikus ;)

_We cheat Death from his rightful victory_

_No one can defeat us. We are glad to plunge_

_Feet first into hell in the knowledge that we will rise_

_-_ Dainel Pemberton

The air was stale and rank, the room dark and silent.

The door that had previously been forced open was once again closed, staged to look as though it hadn’t been cut off from its hinges by a blade hotter than that of anything the inhabitants of the current district could afford. Instead, a perfectly inconspicuous door stood in its place, a near exact replica, save for that fact that it was entirely transparent from the backside and flickered into life from a tiny holopod on the ground. A skilled eye may have been able to spot the minute differences between a projection and the real thing, but certainly none from The Slums. No passerby would suspect the previously abandoned hovel had become a stakeout for a trap set only a few yards away.

Not like anyone would look to the shamble of a house, anyways. It was obviously long since deserted and subsequently picked clean by all manner of vulture.

Besides, residences of The Slums were boarded up and forsaken frequently, for a whole slew of reasons ranging from mundane to exotic and every flavor of illegal in between. Never because its occupant found enough coin to afford a better life beyond the district, however. Such a fate never befell as resident of The Slums. Those born here, died here, only ever scraping by and acquiring low paying jobs that typically ended in fatal mishap. It was a well-known reality that no one dared to question or correct – too busy working to ensure their own lives didn’t follow suit. Or simply too wealthy to bother caring.

More than likely the tenant had fallen victim to an incident at one of the nearby foundries, never to return while the sad excuse for a home fell into even more ruin that it was already in.

Though, the dead body that occupied its floorboards now was of a much more illegal occupation. His crimes were mundane enough. He was what the common folk referred to as, a Gold Peddler. A Gold supplier. A drug dealer, of no reasonable talent or concern. His kind were a dime a dozen, but his circumstances were extraordinary. Little did he know that his natural lack of importance and uneventful back alley dealings had attracted a particularly _interesting_ individual.

One who had no known name to the authorities that sought her. Only a moniker, given in reference to the carnage she left in her wake: The Beast.

As it so happens, the dealer was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or the reverse, depending on your point of view. And so, he had to die.

The flies had only just begun to burrow their way into the cooling flesh, the blood still slick enough to glisten in the flicking fluorescent glow of the street light filtering in through the window. His eyes were wide, as wide as they’d been when he’d been set upon by a team of Kamaelot’s finest Courtiers. He’d not even the chance to scream, the intention still hanging on his ashen lips.

His killer sat only a few feet away, settled into a dark corner of the room where no wandering eyes would spot him. He stared down at his unfortunate victim with stoic resolve etched into his features and cold calculation glossed over his eyes. He did not look to the vargrant out of pity or remorse, nor pride or patriotism. Rather, indifference as unfeeling and inconsequential as the killing had been. Recognizing his actions as merely a means to an end. A necessary evil. An acceptable atrocity.

He’d done this before – many, many times before, this kill was of no significance – and he knew he’d do it many more times before it was all over. He’d long been desensitized to death, both the prospect of his own and others’. The killing no longer affected him as it did some of his men, a few still glancing over to gape every now and then. No. He was forged of a stronger mettle than that of most, born and bred for nights such as this. Violence was a powerful tool he wielded with precision and purpose. He had a duty to do – to be – a cause that demanded his brutality and mercilessness. A birth right of otherwise insurmountable portion. To end the great and terrible war that was the Mage Rebellion, the scourge of Kamaelot.

And if not, then to be ended by it, for he was the ill-fated – 

“Commander Pendragon.”

Arthur looked up to where Mordred was nestled in the shadows, his figure and full head of curls barely visible in the dim light. “Target is on site,” Mordred relayed, lowering his hand from his ear where his comm set glowed faintly.

“Suspect,” the young heir corrected.

“Sir?”

“The target is a suspect until we’ve got confirmation it’s her,” Arthur chided, rising from his seat and stepping out from the gloom to peer out the shattered remains of the window. Though it was no use – nothing could be seen through the smog at this hour, not even with the moon hanging just overhead. The bog was impenetrable. Though the working day had long since ended, the foundries beyond the district walls blazed a brilliant orange inside the haze, their toxic waste rising over the metal barrier to blanket the waters and footbridges of the Slums in a thick, soupy fog.

Even with the trap only a stone’s throw away, there would be no decent visibility beyond that of his nose. Instead, Arthur would have to rely on his men, and hope the operation wouldn’t deteriorate into a foot chase.

Though the odds were entirely unlikely, he’d laid his trap well and meticulously prepared himself for any situation. The Beast was not to be underestimated, lest she be his murderer next…

Arthur pressed the comms link along the neck of his body armor, “All, hold position until a transaction has been made. Elyan, report once you have visual.” Then the line went silent, replaced by the lapping waters underfoot and the creaking foundation. But with the silence came something else, something cold and unpleasant. It wasn’t the metaphorical calm before the storm. Nothing quite so kind. Rather, it was the gnawing apprehension of what Elyan’s confirmation would mean and the implications it would have on everyone’s life expectancy.

Arthur could taste it in the air, feel it in the many gazes that fell upon him: fear.

A reaction not known to Courtiers of their caliber; therefore, all the more dangerous. Before Arthur had the chance to acknowledge his own trepidation twisting in his gut, his earpiece buzzed to life again. “Suspect in sight, beginning transaction.”

“Right, ready yourselves men,” Arthur commanded the room, forcing all his attention to his suit.

The second skin of synthetic fibers and metal alloys hissed and clicked as it tightened against him, melding with his figure and releasing excess air. Tucked compartments glided open to reveal his choice of weapons – a pair of pistols along the seams at his hips, tactical knives pressed into the flats of his forearms, and a single, extendable blade in the valley of his back. He felt over them all, sliding them in and out of place experimentally, carefully noting each even though they were all but natural extensions of him.

“Remember, the suspect is to be taken alive,” Arthur instructed, pushing a depressible point on his wrist to adjust his suit settings. “Set your weapons to incapacitate and keep your shots away from any vital organs.” There was no response, no need for one. Bodies shuffled, weapons were loaded or whirled to life, and armored suits were engaged as they hummed into shape over chiseled forms.

“Permission to terminate if suspect is likely to escape?” came a soldier casually, no one really paying the request any mind. It was a common one though truly just a formality. It went without saying in Kamaelot that the Courtier’s, especially those of the King’s most elite forces, were deployed to right a problem, by whatever means—

“Denied.”

The room stilled at that and the wafting fear suddenly became suffocating.

There was a long pause when no one moved, save Arthur who went on about his business as if he hadn’t just broken half a decade of precedence. As if he wasn’t sending him men against one of the city’s most notorious criminals without a prayer of a chance.

One of the soldiers nearest Arthur shifted closer, stepping out of the darkness and into the blue-glow of the fluorescence. He took a cautionary glance around the room, meeting the gaze of his concerned comrades briefly, before angling himself away to move to his commander’s side. “Arthur,” he spoke quietly, low enough so that the rest of the room couldn’t overhear, “are you sure that’s wise?”

“Do explain, Leon” Arthur insisted with an aggravated huff, not bothering to look up as he leafed over his tactical belt, taking stock.

“I mean, shouldn’t she be terminated at all costs? She _is_ one of Emrys’ most elite agents and number four on your father’s list of Top Contracts.” But Arthur was wordless in response; he did not even deign him with an acknowledgement. Just pulled out a small throwing knife and inspected its Gold-tipped edge, which had been sharpened to perfection.

Leon had to force himself to swallow, his throat suddenly going dry as the realization of their predicament set in. “My Lord,” Leon then stepped in even closer, the words tumbling out shakily, “she has obliterated whole platoons, decimated entire complements. If this is, _in fact_ , The Beast than this operation is more than just dangerous. It’s perilous. She is a _menace_ , and the city would be better off without her.”

“If _in fact_?” Arthur echoed in the same tone of incredulity, shooting his man a sharp look. Sharp enough to cut someone down a peg or two, but the blow was dulled by years of acquaintance and comradery. Still, it was enough to hurt. “Do you doubt our intelligence, Leon?”

“No, I don’t doubt our information,” Leon corrected quickly, opening his mouth to protest further but–

“Then you doubt _my_ intelligence? That I don’t understand what’s at stake here and what would be best for _my_ city,” his voice rung deep at that, echoing throughout the hut to startle his men and cause Leon to flinch. Arthur’s face, though young and unweathered was suddenly hard beyond his years. A weight settled in his shoulders that his back shifted and flexed to accommodate. His jaw set and the last remaining pockets of his suit hissed to a close as he squared himself with Leon.

For a long moment, Leon said nothing, simply balking as the man before him stepped into an authority he worked hard to hide. Though it radiated from him now like heat from the sun and just as scorching, and it was suddenly impossible to have ever missed that Arthur was the son of a king.

“N-no, My Lord, of course not,” Leon amended even hastier than before, “it’s just—”

“Then you have your orders, Leon,” Arthur interrupted, patting his man on the arm dismissively as he walked away.

Arthur then took a quick inventory of the room, men and weapon alike, gauging their status. When after a moment he found it satisfactory – if not a bit unsteady – he made his way towards the holographic door, bracing himself along the wall. “Form up,” he snapped, and men instantly moved to lined up behind and across from him, ready to spill from the shack and flood the street at Elyan’s signal.

For that, Arthur looked to Mordred. Said scout was pressed into the doorframe opposite Arthur, one hand over his free ear so that he could better hear. His comm set buzzed with muffled voices. Arthur couldn’t make them out from his spot, nor could he hear them carry from across the street. Instead, he focused on Mordred’s eyes, the look in them as he monitored the situation.

Something hard fell in Arthur’s stomach.

Mordred was difficult to read on the best of days, the youngest and yet fiercest of their company. Arthur had accepted long ago that Mordred would always be somewhat of a closed book – you don’t survive growing up on the streets of Dark Town by being open and approachable. As a matter of fact, it was Mordred’s cold demeanor and impenetrable guard that most attracted Arthur to him. It was why he recruited the boy off the streets despite his father’s strong objections. Why he kept him close at all times. Why he trusted him to be his eyes and ears, as he did now.

Which is also why, to see Mordred’s eyes wide and his brow furrowed, gaze franticly flickering everywhere and nowhere, chilled Arthur to the bone.

“Mordred,” Arthur called lowly, but the boy did not hear, too lost to whatever he was listening to. His chest began to rise a fall rapidly.

“Commander,” Leon whispered from the darkness behind him, having broken formation to approach Arthur again, “Please, reconsider—”

“Not now, Leon,” Arthur spat through gritted teeth, throwing his arm out blindly to try and silence him as he strained to assess Mordred’s condition.

“But, My Lord—”

“Leon,” Arthur snarled again, practically frothing with vitriol, which was enough to silence the man for a moment so that he could take in the situation at hand. “Kid?” he addressed Mordred curiously, equally confounded by the expression he found there.

“It’s not her,” Mordred exhaled shakily.

“What?” Leon blinked.

“How do you know?” Arthur demanded.

“It’s not a woman.”

“Then who is it?”

But as Mordred’s features suddenly morphed into something terrible – strained, desperate, panicked – Arthur’s vision failed him in a flash of white and then… everything was gone.

Sight and sound vanished in an instant, as if being startled awake in reversed. The world was blank, void all at once. There was only the heat. Blazing. Brilliant and scorching, it came from nowhere and yet it singed everywhere – everything – licking at his very bones. Melting marrow. Turning his blood to a boil. Hot, too hot, but he couldn’t scream.

Then came the pressure, like a wave, building behind him. Rippling, cresting, crashing. And then all at once upon him, sweeping, barreling through him, throwing him, carrying him through the nothingness until something stronger stopped him, locked him in place. He was crushed against it for an eternity, gasping for breath where there was none, only heat, molten lava burning at his insides. Melting.

Then it was over. The pressure finally slipped away in a gentle caress and the anger of the flames withered, until both disappeared. And in their wake, the world slowly seeped back into reality.

First the screams, distant and muffled as if through a wall, disembodied and disjointed, coming closer slowly until right on top of him, then too close, stabbing at his ears. Shrill and bloodcurdling, bouncing around his skull.

Next the smell – a wretched stench. A rank and foul stink. Harsh and thick and gamey, almost like meat that’d been left on the spit too long. Something decidedly burnt, with the definitive taste of black.

Lastly and worst of all, came his sight.

Fogged over and hazy. Sharpening only on that which was nearest him. Splintered wood, smoke, ash. But it was wrong way up for a long, disconcerting moment. Arthur blinked, once, twice, three times and still it was wrong. The sky was below the floor, fire sank, and people floated on air.

Then it was pulled into focus, dragged into place as a firm grip twisted and pulled him back to his feet. Two strong hands on his shoulders, jerking him. Snapping him to see—

“Mor—” but he was cut off with a heaving, too-dry wheeze, one that rocked him forward and burned all the way out. Arthur grimaced and hissed against the sting long after it ended, grasping at the man before him to remain upright. Dirt and ash filled his lungs, refusing to come up but choking him all the same.

Mordred swayed unsteadily. It took a long moment, but Arthur recovered, despite the pinpricks still dotting his sight and the deafening ringing between his ears. Mordred didn’t look any better than Arthur felt, face blacked and smeared with dark red, vicious gashes along his swollen face. He too looked scared, eyes wide and hands trembling on Arthur’s shoulders.

When Arthur’s vision returned well enough for him to see past them, he realized they were standing in an altogether different hut than before.

There was no back wall, nor barely any roof left. The charred remains of both hissed and sizzled, laced with glowing red spiderwebs as they continued to crumble away under the smoldering blue flames. Windows were blown out and glass shards bounced lazily through the air, catching the light like fireflies. Embers rose from the ground up, glowing gold, and smoke hung rather than rose.

 _No_ , was Arthur’s only thought, no, no. It _couldn’t_ be?

Blackened bodies dotted the floorboards, small and shriveled. He’d have mistaken them for children if it weren’t for their suits, the tattered remains of House Pendragon heraldry adorning their dark corpses. Their leathery skin glowed with a golden shimmer, one that pulsed brightly before sinking through the flesh, receding into their bones. Finding its home there.

“No” he gasped on an exhale, voice breaking even on that. His knees gave out and Mordred startled but Arthur couldn’t hear him. _No…_

Magefire.

Arthur fought to ignore the swell of terror in his throat, thick and wild. The feel of blood as it pounded past his ears, cold panic rising up his spine as the flames grew higher. Brighter. Bluer. And then golder. Growing hotter rather than colder, slithering up the walls and over the water. As unnatural an abomination as that which summoned it.

A mage.

Great and fearsome, too. Since the first Culling, few mages even lived who were capable of preforming _true_ magic. Arthur knew this. He helped oversee their eradication, no extermination. He was charged with their extinction. Those who remained from his grandfather’s reign could only hope to throw and bend petty energies to their wills – barely parlor tricks compared to those tales of the Old Ages. The scars that marked the very earth a testament to their might and prowess. One that had long been lost.

But magefire…

Arthur shook the thoughts from his mind to focus on the task at hand, lurching forward to dig through the rubble there. It burned even through his suit. He found Leon there and Mordred helped hurl him to his feet, Arthur only checking for consciousness before moving to the next pile. “Sound off,” he hollered, tearing through the debris on his hands and knees like a madman, looking for any body part he could find that wasn’t charred to ash.

He pulled a fleshy hand from the rubble, only to have the arm crumble away. “Sound! Off!”

Mordred and Leon followed suit, just as desperate and reckless. Before long, the whole room came to life as more soldiers began to recover, surfacing from the wreckage and staggering to their feet. 

“Arthur,” a breathy voice rasped over the comms link, too low for Arthur to hear. It was only the violent cough that caught his attention, stilling him as he rose from the ground with another in his arms, “A-Arthur, come in.”

“Elyan! Ely—yes, yes, we hear you. Report, where are you? What’s your condition?”

“No ti— _ack_ — he’s getting – _ack—_ away,” Elyan stammered, another cough cutting him off before, “target is,” the sound of wet, ragged breathing, “escaping. Alley.” Then, weaker, “East.”

And suddenly nothing else mattered.

Arthur did not pause to alert nor rally his men before he abandoned them without a word, shooting out the hut as fast as his legs could carry him. He could hear their shouts behind him, echoing in his comms, but he paid them no mind. None were fit to follow him. Too few were even alive to do any good. Besides, this wasn’t their fight. Not anymore.

Now, Arthur had to do this alone.

His muscles were slow at first, unsure, freshly tender and aching, and then they weren’t. Set alight, powerful, more so than ever before. Adrenaline racing like cold ice through his scorched veins, blood pounding. He sunk into a low sprint, shoulders in and arms pumping, he could hear the rising whine of his armor whirling up to accommodate his speed.

Before long, the suit took the lead, carrying him further and faster than he could ever hope. Arthur was just a passenger. Simply steering. His heavy boots cracked along the rickety footbridges and ruined concrete of The Slums, the sound loud enough to startle the rushing crowds out of his way.

Where once the night was dead, the whole world was in an uproar now. Bodies were everywhere, running every which way, scrambling and scattering, it was all Arthur could do not to crash into them. Most people made for the district wall, some of them fell to the ground, others jumped off the bridges into the water, and even more simply scrambled about as blue wildfire raged and caught fire to their homes.

“Call in a medical convoy,” Arthur shouted over the comms channel, “save anyone you can!”

“Arthur!” came Leon, franticly “Arthur, come in. What are your coordinates? We’ll—” but he fizzled out before he could finish. Arthur glanced to the display on his wrist, noting amongst all the red flashing lights his comms indicator as the number continued to climb.

A frightening solidarity settled in his stomach.

“Look out!”

Arthur only caught a glimpse of a blur, a man maybe, two more blurs on the ground. A scream, a woman’s? Without a thought Arthur threw himself through the wall beside him, crashing through stone and wood and fire before exploding back into the street. He’d have stumbled in place for a moment, disorientated, but his suit hurled him forward, leaving Arthur’s senses to catch up.

And not a moment too soon. 

He bounded off a wall and then another, crashing into the third before turning down the eastern alley, glancing sideways to the abandoned stall where Elyan had been. There was no sign of him there, or the stall for that matter. Just a burning pile of debris, vengeful black lines extending outwards, and the raging, glowing remains of the Gold boiling in the magefire.

For a moment guilt and shame stabbed at him, threatening to break him. His lower lip trembled at the weight. But in the next instant it was gone and in its place was hate, burning as hot as the flames at his heels.

Arthur ran that much harder. That much faster. His mechanical legs whined in protest and lights flashed on the wrist of his suit, beeped frantically in his ears, but they were no use. He wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t. Even if he wanted to.

Because there, coming into focus against the distant fires, was a blurry figure nearing the end of the alley.

“There you are,” Arthur snarled. “Target in sight” he shouted into his earpiece, despite there being no one there to hear him, it didn’t matter if they were. The hot air in his chest demanded freedom, welling up in his lungs and crawling up his throat. His entire being ready to crawl out of his skin if he could get there any faster. “In pursuit!”

Arthur’s suit locked onto his target, sharpening his vision and magnifying his line of sight as much as possible. The blurry figure came into the sharp, sudden contrast of a young man sprinting like mad, hooded and cloaked, dark robes singed gold and black. He ran with as much might as his scrawny legs could muster, racing to try and flee into the shadows.

The man threw a glance over his shoulder, somehow aware of Arthur’s pursuit, and his pace quickened. Fast – faster than that of anything human, golden sparks beginning to fly from his feet as they connected with the ground, like a hammer to a fresh blade.

But the mage was no match for an armored Courtier, let alone one of a Pendragon’s caliber.

Arthur was gaining fast. He could feel his feet breaking the stone now, sinking deeper than they landed before bounding away. He’d catch him, that much was for certain, but not before they reached the street. He’d planned for a foot chase, but not like this, not with a mage. If he lost sight of the creature—

Arthur wrenched his twin pistols from his hips, screaming, “Disable stun!”

“Disabled,” came the disembodied voice in his ears, flat and lifeless. The soft blue light along the barrels turned red. Orders be dammed. 

Bullets sang as they ricocheted and bounced off the alley walls, screeching, whistling through the air, breaking through windows and stone alike. But Arthur didn’t stop, he just watched the bullets bounce off the mage, as if striking metal and not the skin they so obviously hit. Frightening, unlike anything he’d ever seen. It was even less human than he realized. And though his bullets didn’t penetrate, they did cause the mage to stagger and stumble.

So he didn’t stop. He pulled the trigger again and again, over and over, round after round, until there was only clicking. First one, then both pistols. Utterly spent.

Arthur could not even spare a glance to his belt for spare magazines, couldn’t risk letting him get away, “Enable stun!” – red to blue – and the clicking was replaced with bright bursts of light. Like flashes of lightning, shooting forward through the dark. They too bounded away, blackening the walls before they fizzled out, but he was close now. Close enough to hear it gasping for breath, hear the panic in his panting.

So close – just a breath closer, a tiny fraction nearer and he’d be close enough to—

But suddenly the creature shot off the ground, up and over him, exploding into the air as if he’d sprouted wings.

Arthur scrambled to a stop but couldn’t, burying his fist into the alley wall to anchor him there. His pauldron bent and gave under the force. His brain slammed against the front of his skull as his suit fought to dispel his forward momentum. A pitiful “shit,” was ripped from him as the force tore through him, stealing the air from his lungs and knocking his knees out from under him. More red lights and beeping erupted from his wrist.

And then it was over.

Arthur whipped up to see the lanky figure scale his way to the roof, scampering over it with a fearful squeak. Debris fell in his wake, skittered across the ground.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Arthur gasped, staggering back for a moment, the wall crumbling where his fist had been.

He snapped his pistols into his hips and sank to his knees, the gears in his armored legs coiling. He took one sharp, shaky breath before it was forced from him, his suit shooting into the air and the ground beneath him shattering with the force. His stomach flipped and the world smeared past him for an instant before he broke through the fog and floated amongst the stars. For a moment he was suspended, hanging weightless before gravity realized it had been defied. It was in that moment that he lunged forward, armor carrying him through the air to throw him onto the roof.

He landed in a roll and broke into a run across the metal sheeting.

The mage wasn’t too far ahead, once again sprinting furiously, sparks flying. He looked over his shoulder and back, breathing heavily as he leapt across the tightly packed houses of The Slums. Exhaustion was catching up to it, showed in his movements, wild and imprecise now. Desperate, even. His footing was unsure, slipping here and there against the metal and throwing their chase into twists and turns.

Arthur was upon him again with ease, so close this time he could taste the sweat of the creature’s nape. But rather than tackle or grab him, Arthur dropped his shoulder and collided into its back as he threw himself forward. He felt the pressure that’d been pulling at his face pass through him, abandoning him. At the same instant, he felt it carry away the mage. 

He was lighter than Arthur expected, which sent it flying even further than he anticipated. Much further. It crashed and rolled across several roofs, first on its face, then side, then back – body bending and snapping in ways one shouldn’t -- somehow breaking through several other taller buildings before slamming into one with a deafening crack and crumbling there.

He skidded to a natural stop, allowing himself a moment to catch his breath as his vision enhanced and leapt across the skyline where the mage lay, broken and wheezing. Golden blood glistened as it dripped from where his head hung, dotting his raggedy robes. He could hear it sputter and gasp, harsh against the newfound silence. Pathetic little sounds, as defeated and pitiful as any other mage. It was clear he wasn’t going anywhere.

Arthur’s chest filled with a victorious satisfaction. “Not so special after all, huh?” The mage jerked to attention at that, fixing Arthur with a piercing glare, amber eyes blazing like molten lava from behind a dark hood. They raked over him slowly – carefully – like freshly hot coals, burning where they went.

Arthur swore he’d never get used to those eyes, those of a mage revealed, of their magic utterly spent and their human disguise fallen away. This mage’s seemed exceptionally bright, even more inhuman than the rest. As bright and wild as the magefire in the distance, though they flickered like a flame in the wind, flashing, as the last remnants of its power drained away. Blazing gold faded to dulled amber.

And with that, Arthur made the last jump to the ruined rooftop of his victim. “No matter now,” he shrugged, drawing his blade from his spine with a menacing hiss. The mage didn’t deign it a glance, simply kept his glare fixed. 

Said creature was much smaller than Arthur expected, lean and young looking, though maybe it was just all the broken bones. Where the light overhead fell through the tattered hood, he even caught a glimpse at sharp angles and fine features, evident even from there. Surprising. He didn’t look near as twisted and inhuman as those monsters that plagued Arthur’s darkest dreams. All misshapen faces and grotesque figures. This one was strikingly human despite his eyes, even more so frail and defeated.

It made Arthur sick to think that if he’d passed the mage on the street he’d have never known the monster behind the mask. It was their greatest weapon, by far, their ability to hide in plain sight. Save for the eyes, which they hid well, the only thing to give them away was the dark, coppery blood like that stretched out on the rooftop before him, shimmering with the same eerie glow as that in his dead comrades’ skin.

It was for them Arthur grounded out into a growl, reading the base of his sword across his forearm, “Now you die.”

It felt wrong to say it. The words went against the grain of his very soul. He could hear his father and uncle now, berating him. Condemning him for daring to violate their commands. But this mage was not The Beast. This devastation was not what he’d been briefed, what his men had signed up for. They were not meant to die for this dammed mage.

Arthur surmised his father would just have to get over it.

He took a step over the creature, letting the tip of his blade catch the mage’s hood. For the briefest of moments he hesitated, fearful of what he might find in the shadows, before giving his blade a flick for it to fall away.

Arthur’s breath may have caught in his throat had he been in less prepared.

The moonlight cast across the mage’s face to reveal a jet-black mask, burned away just enough for Arthur to see the ruined, pale skin beneath, matted in darkening carnage. Even with so little to see, Arthur could tell it was a handsome face, young and chiseled – jaw sharp and cheekbones sharper still – though bloodied and bruised.

The sight struck Arthur almost as forcefully as the smile he found there. The mage couldn’t have been much older than him, barely a man. A whole life unlived. What was supposed to be the face of a monster, foreign and unnatural, was instead strikingly familiar. A weathered youth sacrificed to the war, the tattered remains of a childhood lost and a future forsaken. To be sure, Arthur looked no different.

Then the smile tweaked higher and Arthur’s scowl deepened.

“You think this is funny?” He pressed the tip of his sword to the mage’s throat, applying just enough pressure to let it break the skin for liquid bronze to spill and pool at his collar.

Still, its smile grew. Sick and sinister, teeth stained blood-gold.

Arthur fought to conceal his shattered composure, jaw locking in place. Should this boy not be terrified? Pitiful and pathetic, begging for his life as he lay at the feet of his killer? Arthur had taken many lives before. He’d looked upon countless victims. He knew the look in a man’s eyes before he died, knew the spark of life that flashed there as a fatal blow was delivered, the way it flickered out of existence. The fear that gripped a soul as it slipped away.

There was none of that here. Just a boy with a cheeky grin.

Arthur planted his foot into the mage’s sunken shoulder, putting enough pressure there to break a human’s bone, but there was no snap. He leaned forward all the same.

“I will kill you for what you’ve done here tonight.” There was a huff of a laugh at that. “I’ll make it slow and painful,” Arthur whispered lowly lacing his words with as much venom as he could muster. Hoping it shown on his face the sincerity of his promise – his mind already racing with every way he knew to make a man scream.

Still there was no recognition of danger on the mage’s face. Arthur’s insides revolted as the satisfaction of his victory began to dissipate.

He put more pressure on the shoulder, but still there was no give. No crack of the bone between metal and stone, and at this point it was safe to assume there would be none. So instead, Arthur flicked his blade from throat to chest and drove it forward. There was a soft _chink_ as the tip met the wall.

The mage jerked forward against the blade, eyes widening and mouth falling open with a loud and strangled, _guack_! Then it was Arthur’s turn to smile, chest once again swelling with pride. “ _Now_ you get the picture,” he sneered, twisting the blade so the mage’s entire body rose in protest, earning a gritted sputter as he flailed helplessly.

After a moment of futility, the mage slumped, and eyed the sword wearily. No doubt he spied the subtle radiance there. Again, Arthur beamed with pride, watching as confusion clouded the mage’s face. “Like it?”

Specially forged upon a king’s request. Like any other magnificent weapon its hilt was one of untold beauty – a gilded dragon coiling up the shaft, crystal encrusted scales embellished with ruby red eyes. A rounded pommel of silver and gold and a looped guard of dragon’s wings. Though its true beauty was the blade. Small trinkets or knives were often dipped in ornamental adornments or melted metals. But this, this was something entirely different. A work of true craftsmanship. The seamless melding of mundane and magic, a fuller of solidified Gold running the length of the blade. There was no other sword to equal it in the kingdoms. And the only weapon Arthur had even known to slice though a mage’s defenses just as easily as bone.

“This here is Excalibur,” Arthur flaunted for a self-indulgent moment, preening, “it’s not susceptible to your little tricks.”

But rather than cower in fear as it should have, the mage turned his face up at him, cracking a strained sneer, “Shiny.” His voice was deep – surprisingly deep, given his size. That’s when Arthur noticed the tiny lights flickering to life within in the ruined cloth over its face as he spoke.

A modulator.

“Got something to hide under there?” Arthur teased, cocking his head to better examine the state of the mask, “you must have one ugly mug to go through the trouble of getting one of these.” Voice modulators had long been outlawed, in fact, Arthur had never actually seen one up close. As his curiosity piqued and he reached to discard the tattered mask, the mage jerked himself away with a pained grunt and began shoving feebly.

Affronted more than anything else, Arthur wrenched his blade in its fleshy sheath again and the mage’s protests ceased as he lurched violently. “Still got a bit of fight in you, eh? You’re one tough bastard, I’ll give you that,” he added, feeling a strange sort of empathy for the creature.

At a certain point, another’s suffering is no longer entertaining. Mage or otherwise. Though, Arthur couldn’t give it the quick death it no doubt would have preferred – his men deserved better than that.

After a long moment of recovery, in which the mage gasped and sputtered for air, Arthur grabbed at the crown of his head and brought his face up, feeling the miles of thick hair beneath. All the more to leverage, really. “Get off on this, do you?” it chuckled through gritted teeth.

Arthur only twisted the blade further in response, earning another spasm and this time a tortured cry. Still Arthur didn’t give him an inch, only pulled him closer by the root of his hair.

“I’m not usually one for games,” Arthur admitted, looking to his blade where bright blood dripped along the razor’s edge, “but you will beg for death before this is over, mage. I’m going to make you pay for every life you’ve stolen tonight.”

“Ohhh,” it jeered, “what a noble little princeling.”

Arthur refused to let it see him flinch, see the chill that sent down his spine at that. He wore his father’s colors like any other Courtier, the same suit as any seasoned solider. He bore no symbol of his birthright, despite his family’s wishes. Aside from his blade, which alone was not enough to deduce his heritage, he was nothing special. Just another solider. But this mage was certain of himself. His words were not a question, but rather an accusation. Cold and venomous.

“So, you’re not as much an idiot as you look,” was Arthur’s only rebuttal, as to hide the apprehension that rose in his throat.

“No,” it rasped, sucking in a breath to spit a mouthful of blood and dirt across Arthur’s face. “But you are,” it grinned, lips dripping gold.

Dumbfounded for a long moment at the pure insolence, the reckless disregard for his predicament, Arthur just gaped at him. It just stared right back, daring him with the twitch of a brow. Challenge accepted, Arthur reached for the knife tucked along the plating of his forearm when—

In one fluid motion the mage shrugged off Arthur’s boot and grabbed his sword by the razor’s edge.

Arthur staggered back with a startled, “Wha,” but the mage held him there by the sword, white knuckles staining with blood as it spilled out from his fist. His blood gushed thick and fresh, glowing an eerie gold that grew brighter with every drop, matching his eyes as they were suddenly set alight, blazing.

The debris around them began to rise, as did the hairs on the back of Arthur’s neck.

“You thought you’d actually done it, hadn’t you?” The mage’s voice was easy now, indifferent even, “Thought you’d caught me? _Me_.”

Jaw slack and eyes wide, Arthur watched in horror as the mage rose to his feet gracefully, its figure filling in where before it had been fractured, bones setting and cracking back into place as if they’d never been broken. Its labored breathing fell away and instead the mage drew in a deep, steady breath. Filling his lungs to the brink, letting his head tip back as he straightened himself and let it out in a casual, contended sigh.

“The arrogance,” it breathed deep and menacing, rolling his head on his shoulders to set his scorching sights upon Arthur once again. “But I guess you take after your father.”

 _Kill it_ , was Arthur’s only thought, sudden and desperate.

Another lightning fast flash of movement and Arthur’s wrist was caught midair, knife hovering mere inches from the mage’s jaw. The tip pricked the skin there just barely and a bead rolled free. But the mage just winked at him with a tittering little, “Nice try, princeling.”

The suit over his wrist crunched against the mage’s grip and Arthur yelped away, stumbling back in a frantic panic as his knees buckled and he tumbled to the ground. Fear gripped him now, tight as a vice, twisting his insides and cramming them up his throat. He was suddenly acutely aware of where precisely he was, and how very far any of his comrades were…

“You’ve got to be pretty thick to think it’d be that easy,” the mage’s tone was light now, practically nonchalant. With a quick grimace, the creature drew Excalibur from his sternum, blood flowing freely from the wound, splattering and squirting, but he paid it no mind. Simply cast the sword aside to clatter on the rooftop. “And to think such a simple bade could kill me.”

Arthur couldn’t help but gape, jaw dropped in horror as the mage drew a hand to his chest, skin glowing bright beneath the fabric of his gloves and embers rising from a nonexistent flame there as the blood flow slowed. Then stuttered. Then stopped. As his hand fell away and the mage heaved an exhausted sight, Arthur caught sight of the skin beneath, now sealed where before it’d been gouged open. 

The last bit of strength gave in Arthur’s legs and he sunk to the ground.

“Now,” it drawled, teeth flashing in a boyish grin, “ _you_ die,” and without warning a force like none other connected with Arthur’s chin.

The impact so strong it sent him sprawling across the rooftops, skidding off one to roll onto another. Arthur’s brain couldn’t even register the pain that blossomed there as it clambered around his in skull. He could only feel the welt between his bone and the roof, taste the blood in his mouth as chunks of flesh dislodged there.

He’d not even the chance to take a breath before it came again, a blow from nowhere, punching him through the ground and throwing him onto his back. For a long moment he saw stars, spinning and buzzing about until they cleared and the mage came into focus, towering over him. Eyes still glowing, grin still beaming. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this moment.”

Then he flicked his wrist, as if swatting away a fly and something unseen cracked against the side of Arthur’s face.

He felt the gears of his suit lockup, force him to withstand the brunt of it, so to stop his neck from snapping. Once again the world was sent careening as he flew, crashing into something solid. The blows came again and again, now. This way and that. Up and then down again. Forwards and backwards. It came from everywhere. One after another. Tossing him about until—

A hand fisted in his hair and drug his face up.

Arthur blinked furiously, straining with all his might to move, to do anything, but his body refused. Not a single muscle twitched in response. He was unresponsive. He could hardly breath, his lungs empty despite his gasping breaths. All he could do was look upon the mage hovering over him, as his vision returned and his heartbeat began to pulse through him.

“Any last words, Pendragon?” there was an excited lilt in his voice, an eagerness, present even through the modulation.

Arthur pondered over it for a moment, wondering why, and then it struck him – it was clear his body had already resigned itself to what was about to happen, even if his brain hadn’t quite caught on.

This was to be his end.

He let the weight of it wash over him, settle in his soul. It wasn’t as unpleasant a realization as he’d thought it’d be. Not that he’d set out that night with the intention of dying, but it was a risk he knew was more likely tonight than any other. Besides, in his heart of hearts Arthur never expected to die an old man in the comfort of his bed surrounded by his heirs and achievements. That’s not what he was born for. He wasn’t even born to rule. He was born to lead, to fight, and eventually die; it was expected of him. His birthright was not a throne but a war. It would be his greatest act to die defending his kingdom.

“G-get,” Arthur stammered weakly, too low for either to hear.

“What was that?” The mage sneered, but a hair’s breath away, close enough for Arthur to see the molten gold swimming around his inky irises.

“Get,” but Arthur’s words failed him, turning to hot air before they formed.

“Speak up, now.”

This time, Arthur’s mouth moved but no sound came. The thoughts behind them began to slip away, as did everything else…

The mage gave a frustrated sigh and extended his hand to Arthur’s chest. From beyond his darkening sight, there was a glow of light and his collapsed lungs suddenly inflated again, the cold nothingness that had settled in his veins thawing ever so slightly. “Let’s try that again, shall we?” it prodded.

“Ge- _ah_ \- get,” Arthur stammered, working his throat to force out the words, “it… over with.”

“Oh no,” the mage chided, shaking his head slowly, “see that’s simply not fair. How did you put it?” He tilted his head in mocking concentration, lips pouted though they twisted into a smile as he spoke, “I’ll make it slow and pain? Were your exact words, I believe.”

Arthur let his eyes slip shut, willing the darkness to overtake him. “Monster,” he groaned.

“Maybe.” The admittance was genuine, gentle. “I can hardly tell these days,” the deep, rumbling voice mused. A sickening familiar sentiment. “But I wonder, what does that make _you_ then?” the hard edge returned to his voice, the hate. Even in darkness, Arthur could feel the mage draw closer, see the haze of glowing eyes through the back of his eyelids. Those nightmarish eyes were inescapable. “A proud little _princeling_ ,” he scoffed, words laced with malice, “willing to sacrifice half a district just to kill a single mage. Not even. You weren’t expecting me, were you? You’d have done all this just to kill The Beast.” The accusation was scalding, meant to brand him. But it missed its mark. Arthur’s brow just furrowed as his fading mind tried to comprehend the words being spewed at him.

“I can admit I’ve done many horrible things in the name of peace. But I’ve not stooped to murdering innocents just yet,” the mage added venomously.

“Wha- _uh-_ t?”

There was a painful yank in his hair, one that forced his eyes open to see the mage seething, lips pulled back over gritted teeth, “Don’t play coy with me, Pen _dragon_!” White hot anger raged across its features, giving way to unbridled fury, “you really are your father’s son, aren’t you!? Love to watch the world burn, the both of you. I’d have thought he learned his lesson the first time. But now you, too—” he silenced himself suddenly, words catching in his throat visibly as something flashed across his face. Reflexive. Visceral.

“You think I want to do this?1” It demanded in a tone just shy of…

Sorrowful?

Then it was gone. As was the anger. Instead, a cold resignation took its place, hollow and dark as he continued, “It doesn’t matter anymore. You’ve forced my hand.”

At that, Arthur’s brow furrowed. “Forced your – _What_? W-who even are you?” The words came easier now, as did the thoughts behind them, though they were scattered. Racing. Scrambling to put together the reality that was falling away. “Hang on! Sacrifice half a—?”

There was a sudden change in the mage’s face as Arthur continued to ramble, words struggling to keep up as he jumped between thoughts, never finishing one before moving to the next. Too caught up to notice the mage’s face go slack, completely expressionless, gaze slipping away and staring straight through him as the flames there died.

“Wait. No. _You_ did this! Don-t, don’t twist this around on us. Don’t pin—"

Then the mage suddenly seized, gaze snapping back to Arthur’s, hand clamping down over his throat with a furious, “ _Silence_!” in the same instant a crushing, bone breaking weight slammed down against his chest, threatening to squeeze him out through the cracks of his suit. A weight so crushing the hard metal plating groaned against the strain—

“I’ll only ask once,” the mage ground out, guttural and grueling. “Answer or die,” the hand on his throat burned like a branding iron as a distant light grew bright and fire spread throughout his limbs again, “Why’d you spike the Gold?”

“Wha—” Arthur began, brow furrowing deeper, but the pressure bore down upon him in a wordless threat as the mage insisted, “Answer!” He could hear the sound of his suit give and pop, balking under the weight of it.

“I— _gah_ —don’t know what… you’re talking about.”

And then it was gone. All of it.

The hand at his throat.

The pressure on his chest.

The mage…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally. I've written and rewritten his story, the characters, and the plot literally dozens of times since I first conceived this blasted fic over seven years ago. I've published many different versions of the first few chapters over the years and always taken them down. I'm hoping I actually see it through this go round. The quarantine is a good motivator to do so. Please, leave some feedback, let me know what you think if you made it this far. Brutal honesty is gold.
> 
> More to come. 
> 
> P.S. I know the title sucks, but Lana Del Ray inspired this whole thing from that one song (which I no longer like) so I can't change it now.


	2. O' Mice an' Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Heard it got away. Alive,” Elyan added, as if that detail were important to note. 
> 
> Arthur knew it was when his throat tightened hotly around his response, “That’s correct.”
> 
> “…And, you got away, too. Like that,” he nodded over Arthur’s general appearance, catching his eye. Elyan had always been a man of few words, especially since the death of his father, but the few he did say had a way of speaking volumes. Arthur had the odd sense there wasn’t enough space between them for the weight of the words that came next, “That’s weird, isn’t it?”

The songbirds were just beginning to rouse from their lofty nests with the pale glow of the dawn when Merlin came upon the first sign of home.

Well, _a_ home, that is. One of many. And also, none. Merlin could have no _real_ home, he knew this. His first and true home was nothing more than ashes and ghosts, a barren wasteland even he dared not go. He was an orphan – the whole world was his home and yet he could claim no individual part of it. Lest he bring upon it the same fate as his last.

To that end, he visited this “home” least of all.

That which greeted him first was the quiet, whitewashed ruins of a long-lost structure; a handful of half crumbled pillars and scattered stone slabs left standing in the wake of a millennia’s abandonment. They were magnificent in their broken glory, catching the morning rays in a soft off-white against the backdrop of luscious green. No doubt they were a last testament to a rich and troubled history, a past worthy of remembrance – worn carvings of ancient Druidic dialects still visible along the base of the pillars and black scorch marks along the forlorn slabs whispered as much – but their secrets were forever lost to time. As was so much of the once great Old Ages… 

In his awe, Merlin almost missed the bodies, pausing just before he stepped on one.

Nestled amongst the rubble and earth were small, half hidden figures, dotted here and there along the treeline. Barely boys, the lot of them. Each with long, lanky limbs sticking out past their hems and soft, rosy cheeked faces with tiny whiskers along their hardening jawlines. Not a one stirred as Merlin moved about them, carefully. Slowly. Nor would they. Merlin was only ever seen when he wanted to be, a natural talent.

Arguably, the only reason he survived thus far.

Eventually, Merlin spied a young boy propped up against a hewn tree trunk, sleeping soundly. Disheveled hair and muddied skin, scrapped knees and dirty toes poking out of his tattered rags. Rifle in hand and sling hung loosely around his shoulders. The harsh, worn metal a stark contrast to the thick furs and dried hides draped over him.

Merlin perched next to the boy for a long, still minute, trying to commit the innocence before him to memory. As if the presence of it in his mind’s eye could help restore some of his own. Or, at the very least, alleviate the guilt of his atrocities.

The youth was a peaceful sight. A child, really, younger than Merlin was before he held his first gun. There was a faint scar along the bridge of his freckled nose, angry and harsh. Not the kind a child earns on his own. Dark swirls dragged along his cheeks and temples and carried into his hairline, particularly intricate and delicate. Sacrificial markings, unlike those the Druid’s used to distinguish themselves as such, these marks were reserved only for great acts and triumphs. They were very out of place on such a young face, Merlin noted. But beneath it all was just a boy, the languid draw of faint snores, closed eyes moving frantically as he dreamed, and legs twitching in place.

Merlin smiled, despite himself. It was a perfect scene.

“Wha, w-who goes–” the young sentinel startled awake at the light hand on his shoulder, gripping desperately at his rifle and pointing it blindly forward. Big brown eyes blinked blearily at him, tiny flecks of amber glistening in the light. When they focused, he choked on a gasp of recognition, jerking to attention, “M-my lord, Emrys! You’re back! Oh, um, I—”

“Shhhhh,” Merlin insisted softly, patting him gently until the boy settled back into the trunk though he remained coiled like a spring, trembling hands clutching his weapon to his chest, “take it easy, solider. We don’t wanna wake the others, right?”

“Y-y-yes, sir. I mean right. Sir,” the youth gulped harshly, his tiny Adam’s apple bobbing fearfully. He looked around him frantically, then back at Merlin, squirming as he fought back hysteria, “I, I’m—I-I- I’m awake. Honest. I mean, I wasn’t sleeping, you know, it’s not like. Er. Uh. I was just—I thought—”

“Relax,” Merlin chuckled, standing to rustle the kid’s shaggy mess of hair, “your secret’s safe with me.”

“Oh. Uh… _thank you_ ,” he whisper-shouted after him as Merlin made his way into the camp. 

As always, the sight took his breath away.

Without warning the dense, thick forest gave way to a peaceful groove where sun and sky spilled in freely, illuminating the wild underbrush and piercing the dim gloom. At its center stood a great and ancient tree, the largest Merlin had ever seen outside of the Dark Forest, breaking through the canopy to tower high above.

It’s mossy, worn trunk was the magical amalgamation of crystalline, rock, and redwood, the breadth if which was more akin to a skyscraper than a tree. The bark was chipped away in large patches here and there and in its wooden flesh were carved forgotten runes of prosperity and protection. A sad irony. Their power had long since faded away, but the magic remained, buzzing in the air, greeting Merlin’s readily.

Thick, gnarled roots erupted from the ground around and coiled throughout the air, some stretching as tall as the canopy itself while others dragged along the soil like basilisks in the grass, wild and free. It was here the early Druids had built, in and around the mighty roots with winding walls and rounded ceilings. Conforming to nature rather than commanding. Only a small handful of structures still remained, the rest replaced by their descendant’s handiwork. Though it was a painful contrast where one era stopped and the other started, polished rock and glittering marble giving way to dulled pelts and knobby sticks. The sight was a beauty and a tragedy in one. To so evidently see a people who once shaped mountains and tamed oceans reduced to near nothing. What was once a mighty empire, now little more than nomadic tribes and scattered clans nearly hunted to the brink of extinction. These Druids, proud as they may be, were unlike their ancestors in almost every way, save for the magic than ran through their veins. Though little as it may be…

Merlin kept to the shadows along the outskirts of the camp as he went, whether out of habit or caution, he could never tell. Though he did catch himself flinching to cover his face once or twice – that was purely habitual. He stopped himself when he could, earning a few hushed whispers when the morning light caught him. Curious faces peered out of dark huts and ramshackle cots, “Prince Emrys,” falling reverently from their lips.

He didn’t pause though, and no one stopped to greet him as he weaved in and out of root and hut. His visit had a purpose. He wouldn’t stay – couldn’t. No reason to get anyone’s hopes up, after all.

Besides. Soon enough word of the night before would reach them. They would know what he’d done. Or rather, what he hadn’t done. They’d know how he’d let them all down. Again. How he’d spared the son of their greatest enemy. Again. That he’d failed to fulfil his destiny, bring magic to the lands, and end their centuries of suffering. Again.

It was a tried dance, by now. How they kept faith in him he’d never understand.

Though he was sure at least one mage was already aware of the night’s events. Morgana had a talent for knowing things she didn’t see. Sometimes even before they happened. Merlin had learned not to question it; some magics were not to be understood.

Finally, he made it to the base of the tree, the heart of the encampment, where his hut was nestled amongst the underbrush.

Though to call it a hut was a disservice. This was not some half-standing collection of wood and skins that toppled over whenever the wind blew too hard. No. His shelter was a relic. The most intact structure within the ruins, the remnants of what seemed to be a tall spire, with just enough of the second story still preserved to consider it a roof. Though it leaked like all the rest. It was the largest and most magnificent remainder of the ruins, and thus it’d been afforded to him. Though it’d been years since he called it “home”.

He approached the door warily, hand hovering on the handle for a brief pause. There were two inside, he knew before he entered, felt them at the edge of his conscious mind long before he reached the door. Smoke and sage wafted through the cracks in the wood, the gentle rasp of a fresh fire just loud enough to drown out the hushed whispers inside. Merlin braced himself as he entered.

Two backlit women spun on him, eyes flashing bright at the intrusion. “You!”

Merlin’s breath caught at the sight of a frail frame set aglow in the dancing firelight – tattered hides and a necklace of fangs, black kohled eyes with dark bags and matted hair, lips drained to an ashen grey to match a cadaverous skin. Ghastly. Ghoulish, even. If not for the fact that he would recognize the woman blindfolded, she’d have been a stranger to him. Instead, she was a twisted nightmare of the girl he once knew.

Without warning, she sprung, flying at him like a bat out of hell, screeching, “You had one,” a bared hand landed with a _thwack_ , “fucking job!”

Merlin allowed her a single blow, one that left fresh claw marks across his exposed shoulder, before he caught her other as it came down for a second, holding her there. Her wrist was sunken and frail, veins protruding sharply from the translucent skin. He’d have been more horrified at the state of her if not repulsed by the dried, blood that coated her hand. Decidedly not her own in fresh crimson hues, remnants of the carnage still buried under her long fingernails.

“Freya!” Morgana snapped, voice carrying on a whiplash of energy that shook the stones to life, but Merlin held up his hand with a quiet, “’s alright,” and the foundation stilled.

“ _One_ job,” Freya growled, deep and feral, drawing in close with lips pulled back over yellowed teeth, as if to snap. So close that he could smell the stench of her mane and the rot of the blackened flesh on her dangling fangs. “You couldn’t even manage _that_.” She jerked her arm free with a scoff, jumping back to spit at the floor between them in vehement disgust.

“You knew,” Freya snarled, then spun at Morgana with a bared finger, “You both knew!” She whipped back to him, stance squared, taking a threatening step forward. “You knew they’d send _him_ , didn’t you?”

Merlin didn’t retreat from her advance, rather, he let her question hang there and suffocate, schooling his features to match his silence. Though it was answer enough.

Freya shook with unbridled fury, tearing her hands through the air in an attempt to find purchase for her rage, “You, you… _uargh!_ This could have all been over—I could have ended it—I _would_ have ended this!” Her voice rose loud enough to wake the whole camp, the force of it straining her vocal chords taut and flushing her face red, “If you knew you were too weak to get it done then you shouldn’t have stopped _me_ from killing him!”

That was the line.

It was one Merlin didn’t know existed between them until then, but it was evident in the spike of his blood pressure and the rush of his adrenaline that it was there. That it’d been crossed. He straightened himself slowly, calmly, careful not to show any indication of the still-tender ache in his chest. For Freya was indeed a predator in every sense of the word. One of the most foul he’d ever known, in fact. She was well-deserving of her fearsome title. She _was_ a Beast, a savage. More and more every day, despite his best efforts.

He’d once held out hope that the Druids’ influence would save her as it had Morgana – said mage a silent statue watching patiently against the firelight – but he’d been too late. She’d already been too far gone.

This was all that was left.

“Arthur Pendragon still draws breath because _I_ chose to show him mercy,” Merlin ground out, the timbre of his voice trembling with barely concealed restraint, “the same mercy I have shown you in brining you to this sacred place.” Something guttural rippled in her throat. “Don’t mistake my kindness for weakness. It is strength that stays my hand, dearest.” His voice faltered at the end, despite himself. He’d meant to say it, well aware it’d sting more than any scratch, but he’d forgotten it’s weight. The word alone still left a sharp taste on his tongue, though the sentiments behind it had long since died.

She bristled at the endearment none the less, white-knuckled fists shaking at her sides. It was one he’d not used in an eternity, only spoken in a tangle of sheets and warm kisses. His stomach fell out at the recollection. For once upon a time she _was_ dearest. And fairest. Sweetest. Gentlest.

Before the corruption set in, that is.

Now she was no such thing. Nothing but malice and dissonance in perpetual discontentment. Barely a shadow of the woman he once knew. A dark specter of his past resigned to forever haunt him. In another life maybe it wasn’t so. Maybe in another place she was a gentle, kind creature still. The same beautiful soul that first taught him to hope, good and pure. One he could love unconditionally for the rest of his days and she would let.

But not in this life…

He could feel the weight of her outrage bear down on him as her being surged forward to contest his, weight crushing, crashing into his lungs like a brick wall. Her magic was cold as ice upon his, serrated and soulless, lashing out at his senses that reached beyond him. Trying to force him into submission.

His own magic rushed into his veins – tendrils of scorching fire spilling out from some nowhere place inside – to fill him, envelope him, extended beyond him, to clash with hers in the air between them. The force of it rippled through the air in his chest like a blast of thunder. The door behind him rattled and the fire flickered on a gust.

Merlin met her murderous glare with a vicious one of his own, letting his power show there in a blazing gold as his will tangled with hers.

Freya was powerful, to be sure, but not near enough. It took little effort to pry her off of him, turn the torrent, and force it back upon her. But she was graceless in defeat, her magic thrashing against his as it went – undisciplined and uncontrolled. A shadow cast across the room like a cloud over the sun. Pottery cracked, pelts tore, and trinkets shattered all around them.

“Enough,” Morgana snapped with a start, looking to him with an impatient, “Merlin.” It wasn’t a command or an accusation, it was an invitation. It said, _finish this._

Merlin’s magic surged, singing in his veins and dancing in his fingertips as it went. Oh, how it loved the freedom he so rarely allowed it, rushing from him excitedly; the walls trembled in anticipation and their ancient markings hummed to life. It poured out of him – though tender from the strain of the night before, just as eager – spilling over his consciousness to flow beyond it. He felt his magic seep into the world around him, twine into the very fabric of it, feeding him senses he couldn’t even put name to, simply endure. He let himself overflow the tiny room, encompass it until he overshadowed all within it. Morgana receded into herself willing, but Freya struggled as Merlin trapped her in, pinned her magic against her fragile form and held her there. She simply writhed there, burning cold against him in as much fury as she could manage. Her eyes flashed bright at the unspoken challenge, nostrils flaring, though she knew better than to accept.

She was no fool; Merlin’s power was not one to be tested. She’d not even a prayer of a chance as it continued to spill from him, crowd the tiny space, pack into every corner and crevice until the density of it was palpable. The shadows faltered as the room began to grow bright, as if a hole opened in the ceiling to let the sun pour in; sparks of firelight twinkled through the air like fireflies in the night.

Merlin had won, the weight of it settled in his shoulders as rolled them under the strain. Freya bared defeated gracelessly as she always did, shaking in place as she no doubt fought to resist the murderous gleam in her eye. It was a long, dangerous moment between them before Morgana finally bade, “Leave us,” stern and final.

Freya’s glare held Merlin’s for another torturous, tantalizing moment longer, just because she still could, before throwing it in Morgana’s direction. It was then he noticed the deep hollows of her face, the shadows that never fell there before. When she turned back at him the dark rings and black stain on her skin intensified the blinding gold of her irises.

He couldn’t help himself, the words forced themselves free before he could temper them, “Be well.” He hadn’t meant for it to come out as soft as it did, as tenderly, “please.”

To that she simply snarled and made for the door. He watched her go until she paused, bony hand resting on the frame as she turned to add, “You really are the most gutless coward I’ve ever known,” words laced with vitriol. Morgana let the room quake with her indignation, an open threat. “I wish I’d never met you.” The words were a well-placed blade, though the stab at his heart was duller than the first time she’d used it. And with that she was gone, her magic slipping out from under his. 

Merlin looked on after her as Morgana brought the room to a still, hissing curses and hexes under her breath all the while. He drew himself in slowly, feeling her disappear at the edge of his senses. When finally the world settled, “She’s a lost cause, that one.”

“Yes, she is,” he admitted on a stale breath he didn’t know he held. “Is she always like that bad?”

Morgana just huffed a sardonic laugh at that, swatting towards the door as if some unwanted essence of Freya lingered, “Take her back to Kamaelot with you and find out.”

At that Merlin turned to fix her with a wary look, teetering just on this side of disapproving as he arched a quizzical brow at her.

“Relax,” she drawled with a crooked smile, moving from beside the fire to sit on a ramshackle stool draped in furs, “can’t you take a joke?”

“Is that what that was?” He gave her halfhearted smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Not a very funny one.”

“Sure it was. You’ve just lost your sense of humor in your isolation,” she retorted, wrinkling her nose up at him.

“Guess so,” he shrugged, pulling up a knotted stool near the firepit. The gentle warmth rolled over him in waves, melting away the morning chill that nipped at his rosy cheeks. He stretched out slowly, drawing an arm across his chest by his forearm and pulling it taut. Though he moved a little too stiffly, his muscles still aching with the strain from the night before, protesting to his ministrations with an acidic burn. Morgana pretended not to notice. “Did you have to tell _her_ about last night?”

“I didn’t have to,” she replied dispassionately, “she’s smart enough to figure it out for herself.” She paused, and Merlin felt her gaze on him, “Besides, it’s written all over your face.”

The fire wavered in the morning breeze that slipped in through the crack in the ceiling, sending the embers swirling through the dimly lit room. Morgana simply waved a lazy hand in the fire’s direction and the flames danced at her command. Merlin gazed after them with a furrowed brow.

“Your plaything is safe from her,” she stated boldly, catching his attention as she gave life to fear unspoken. His heart gave a little jump at the mention of him, but Merlin forced it calm. “I keep _that_ one on a tight leash,” she glanced after the door, voice hardening as she muttered, “not that it’ll matter much anymore.” Merlin glanced up at her curiously, finding a hard certainty in her distant gaze, a cold clarity, “Won’t be much longer now before the Black Death takes her.” 

He stifled a startled flinch at the flash of an image in his mind’s eye. Wretched and gruesome. It lingered even as he fought desperately to shove it away, a violent shudder wracking his spine.

“Sorry,” Morgana amended softly, blinking herself back into the present as if she’d been gone a long while. “I guess you didn’t need to hear that.” 

“It’s fine.” Though he convinced neither of them nor did he care to. There were but a precious few Merlin allowed to see himself laid bare, undone, to know his most secrets truths. Though not all, Morgana knew far more than any other. Whether he meant for her to or not.

Merlin just fixed his gaze on the fire again and hoped it would burn away his racing thoughts, “… Soon then?”

She shot him a worried glance with a wordless, _do you really want to know?_ before offering a hesitant, “…Yes, soon. Though I don’t know when, so don’t ask.”

He wasn’t going to. His tongue was suddenly too thick to give form to his thoughts, eyes pricking with a treacherous heat as her words settled in his bones like lead. His throat constricted on the air he drew, which was suddenly not enough. He let out a slow, steady breath. And then another. It didn’t help much.

He hated himself for reacting at all – told himself he wouldn’t. No that he’d fooled himself into thinking the day would never come, nor convinced himself that some fragment of the girl he’d loved yet lived. His Freya was already dead. Had been for a long time. Merlin knew this, he’d accepted this. What remained of her now was barely human and deserved to be put to rest. It would be a kindness, really. And yet his insides twisted and rose high in his chest at the confirmation of it.

Again, Morgana pretended not to notice, suddenly very interested at something on a nail, picking at it distractedly.

Merlin tried to busy himself with a crack in the floor at his feet where a small green bud poked out. It was withered and limp, a deep brown stain beginning to fade up from the root. His magic ebbed and flowed tentatively, wandering, seeking out to gently prod the sprout awake. With a twitch the brown receded and the stalk filled, it stretched itself towards him as if he were the morning sun, and the drooping bud rose to unfurl its pastel petals. They were bright red. Like strawberries.

He sucked in a strangled breath, “I don’t want her on supply runs, anymore.”

Morgana scoffed a rugged laugh, “Yeah, wouldn’t that be nice. I’ll go ahead and take her off the hunting party too while I’m at it, just be done with her all together.” But when she looked over to share her amusement with him, smile stretching and eyes twinkling, she found his gaze set firmly on the floor. Steeled. “Wait… you can’t be serious?” Still he did not respond, deliberately avoiding her as she openly searched his face. She clearly didn’t like what she found. “Merlin,” she started sternly, but stopped herself short, deliberating, then trying again, kinder, “I understand this must be…difficult, for you, given… _everything_. But madwoman or not, she’s still one of the strongest assets I’ve got here. You can’t expect me to just—”

“I can, and I do,” he interjected, curt and sharp, “find someone else.” His gaze narrowed at his feet as the fire sparked and sputtered with the rising tension. “She’s too much of a liability.” It was a poor attempt to add some modicum of logic to his reasoning, but it sounded false even as he said it. More a question than anything else.

“Sure she is, one of many,” Morgana balked, frustratedly lifting her hands to drop them on her thighs with a loud clap, “but I’m more than capable of taking that into account. That’s kind of my job, remember?” She struggled with that for a beat, as if the explanation should be justification enough, but Merlin’s silence made it apparent that it wasn’t. At that, she bristled. “What, you think she’s the only one I have to keep an eye on around here? Not by a longshot, but I make do with what I must.”

“And now, I need you to make do without her,” he lifted his glare from the floor, leveling her with it as best he could, but the ire he was met with was just as formidable.

“And I’m telling you, I _can’t_.” Her voice was just an octave too high, sharp, startingly colder than the morning chill and glare icier still. “My options are limited, Merlin. I’m stuck here while you’re off—,” but she bit something back with a visible grimace. Whether it was the foul taste of the words on her tongue or the sentiment behind them, he couldn’t tell. Rather he waited as she warred between her two natures, bright eyes fixed on him with fierce determination as she struggled. Merlin knew her well enough to map the battle she fought, to spot the near imperceptible shifts as she regarded him as both friend and foe, wrestling with which she’d let win. ~~~~

“I can’t afford to get rid of her, Merlin.”

 _Foe it is then_ , he thought.

“I’m running out of warm bodies,” she went on, “our numbers are depleted, your forces—”

“—Our people.”

“Our people,” she echoed with newfound frustration, “are starving. Both for food _and_ Gold. I know you’ve seen it.” Merlin pushed aside the image of the young sentinel, of the sad flecks of gold in his wide eyes that had been barely there. Perhaps the boy could conjure a spark or stoke a breeze with those flecks, but nothing more. After him, there would surely be no trace of his powerful ancestry. His children would know nothing of magic in their veins. The thought made Merlin ill.

“Their magic is fading, more with each passing day. Soon there won’t be enough of us left to put up a fight,” she snarled with a hiss and the flames flashed blue with her barely concealed animosity. “I can’t just sideline one of the few capable mages we have left. Not now. I need her to do her part while she still can.”

Merlin just shook his head, “She’s too dangerous.”

Morgana rose abruptly from her seat to help dispel her growing aggravation, running a frantic hand through her tousled hair. Her fingers traced a worn track. “Of course she is, that’s why we— look, last night was supposed to be a quiet job. We took every precaution. Just a simple in and out—it was the Slums for Aithusa’s sake!” Merlin tried not to flinch as she took the name of an ancient Druid god in vain. She knew not how much the creature hated it. “

Morgana began to pace around the room distractedly, routinely, her feet followed a well-trodden path in the ash. “The contact was solid, a Gold Peddler, yes, but not the worst we’ve ever dealt with. We vetted him up and down. Job was busted, simple as that. These things happen! It could have been anyone on that run.”

“But it wasn’t,” Merlin countered coolly, lifting a hand to stoke the dimming fire as it choked on the fragile air between them, “it was her. And it would have been a disaster for all of us if she’d been there.”

Morgana drew in a sharp breath at that, rooting in place as she readied herself for what came next. “For you, you mean?”

At that Merlin shot to his feet with a sudden exasperation, mouth open in a small “o” of hostility, but she was unfazed, prepared. She’d aimed low with stoic resolve, ready for the fight it would undoubtedly cause.

And fight he did. Fight as his skin crawled at the rising burn beneath it, as his magic hummed to life, begging for freedom. Fight the white-hot words that flew to his tongue, notching themselves like a bolt in a bow. He bit them back and willed his magic silent. It couldn’t be helped, his response was instinctive, as innate as the jerk of his knee when struck. Always had been. Though he knew it to be irrational, something sparked at mention of the prince, deep seated and foreign but _oh_ so familiar.

Morgana just waited and arched a sharp brow at him, inviting confrontation. 

“We’re not having this fight again,” he warned, a rough gravel to his voice.

“Oh, but we are.” She held herself as if it were a brawl, squaring herself towards him and pushing her sleeves up her forearms. Merlin adjusted his stance towards her accordingly. “Let’s be clear, I’m not defending Freya or the way she does business. But letting her finish off the Pendragon brat wouldn’t have been the worst thing she’s ever done.”

Merlin wrung his hands at his sides, palms itching, working to keep his tone level and breathing even, but his throat constricted as heat rose there, “Yes it would, _actually_. If she’d have been there half the city would be up in flames and every Courtier in Kamaelot would be on our backs—”

“Already are,” she supplied readily between his labored breaths.

“—and this place would be a pile of rubble, right now.”

“More than it already is?” she quipped, flashing a snarky smile at him before she stamped it out, replaced with a sneer. “Don’t kid yourself, _Mer_ lin,” she warned with a condescending lilt. “You can lie to them all you want, to yourself even, but not to me. I know what you hide in your heart. You spared him because you _wanted_ to. Admit it,” she demanded and the room quaked, ever so slightly.

“That’s not the point—,” he forced a grimace, trying to hide the look on his face should his feelings betray him. But it was little use against her, she saw through him as easily as she did the present.

“It’s exactly the point, Merlin! Look around you,” she swung her arms wide to encompass the world, “we’re at war.” As if he could ever forget. “How can you ever expect us to win while he still breathes? Moves must be made if we’re to win. _Sacrifices_ must be made,” she exclaimed with an exasperated inflection, punctuating her point firm rap to her palm.

“Not. His,” was Merlin’s only rebuttal, decided and final, his features as stony as his tenor.

“Why not!?” She barked incredulously, patience finally slipping away as the rubble skittered at Merlin’s feet. “Merlin I— _ugh_ —I can’t understand you,” she spun from him with hand pinched to her nose, the other high on her hip. He felt her power grate against his as the room around them groaned. Merlin took a breath to bring his magic to heel, ashamed he’d not noticed it slipping away in the first place, but hers filled where his receded. “This fascination of yours with that, that – _him_ — it has to stop.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“But it is!” She spun on him with renewed fervor, eyes a wild gold, “Just kill him and get it over with! It’d be one death to spare hundreds of thousands, it’s the simplest thing in the world.” She took a breath, struggling to reign in her frenzy, “I know I’ve gotten carried away in the past, I do. I get why you sent me away, but I wasn’t wrong then and I’m not wrong now. You know – you _know_ ,” she lamented exhaustedly, anger dissipating, giving way to the desperation beneath, “Arthur’s death is the surest way to end this war.”

“ _Uther’s_ war,” Merlin interjected in a fierce whisper, careful to keep his voice low as the name fell from his lips. It was not well received amongst the Druids. “No death will stop this until his, not even Arthur’s! And why should it? Why should Arthur be punished to inherit his father’s sins?”

“ _You_ were!”

Merlin’s breath caught in his throat and his eyes went wide, stunned into silence, but Morgana didn’t miss a beat, rushing out in a frantic plea, “You may not have started this war, but Uther has declared it yours all the same. He hunts Emrys just as fiercely as he did Balinor. You have no place in this kingdom while he lives. Why should he expect us to treat his son any differently!?” The words left her heaving, breathless. It was a betrayal of an unspoken promise, one she’d never dared push, but now that she had best it was carried out in full.

It took an eternity for Merlin to recover, struggling time and again to form words before they failed him, throat working hard. He swallowed at the sudden dryness there while Morgana waited with bated breath, searching his face. For what, he could only guess. But when she stilled, he assumed she’d found it.

“Because we have to be _better_ him,” he struggled to manage, words rasping out in more a prayer than a statement of fact. _Otherwise, what’s the point_ , he wanted to say but couldn’t, throat fatigued.

Something dark flashed across her features as the thought made it way to her tongue, sharp and precise, “Do you ever stop to think maybe that’s why we’re losing?”

Merlin felt it escape him as easily as the breath she stole from his lungs.

Something glass shattered. The fire finally snuffed out and the door crashed open on a sudden gale, biting and brittle as it fled the room, casting them into darkness…

Sunlight lazily crept in as the shadows settled. The morning sun fell over Morgana in a pale white glow where she stood. Merlin could only just make out as she crossed her arms tight across her chest and turned away from him. She went to a table in the back of the room and began tending to a mortar and pestle, wordless. Conversation ended. He saw it in the tension of her shoulders, the stiffness of her back. It wasn’t a surrender – Morgana never surrendered. She was too brilliant a tactician for that, and an even more brilliant mage. No. Her silence wasn’t a defeat, it was a stalemate. One he’d seen many times before; this was an impasse they found themselves at more than either cared to admit.

Which is also how Merlin knew he was expected to make the first move.

He sighed and looked about briefly.

With a flick of his wrist he fanned the flames gently back to life, another and the door drew gently closed as he returned to sit on his stump by the fire. He looked to the glass shards off to the side, willing for them to rise and move in reverse until they stood in a delicate glass vase atop a shelf. He peeked at Morgana.

His attempt merely earned him a sidelong glance over her shoulder as she worked quietly, thoughtfully, mulling over his display as she worked the pestle. While she did, Merlin took a moment to survey his surroundings.

His home was very different than he’d left it. No more endless piles of aged books and dirtied clothes strewn everywhere. Though he quite liked the chaos, there was a pleasant charm in the order he now found. The room was precise and pristine, decidedly so. Dried flowers and herbs hung from the ceiling, small stools and stumps scattered about to hold all manner of glittering trinket and foreboding potion. The thick, twisted root he’d always hated that broke through the foundation and split the room now looked inviting covered in hides and small pillows. In the corner he never knew what to do with, stood a reflective slab of carved crystal propped against the base of the redwood with a long-barreled rifle hanging by its strap from the crystalline edge. A wall of fabrics hung in the back of the room, hiding away her inner chamber of stolen riches and conquered treasures.

“Place looks nice,” he prodded gently, keeping his expectations low.

But to his surprise, and relief, she inclined her head towards him, if only slightly, “I know.” She paused, letting a small smile curl her lips, “I’ve decided you can’t have it back.” Merlin’s surprised chortle only served to spread her smile further. She turned back to hide it from him, moving to swirl the contents of a small glass bottle by the neck.

“You look nice, too.”

At that, Morgana scoffed a skeptic half-laugh, cocking her head at him with a playful grin, “That’s not fair.”

“What? It’s true,” he chuckled. “Really.”

She waited, let his words hang there for a long moment as she holding his gaze steady. After a long moment, her grin went soft softened and her features eased. A silent acceptance of his apology. He knew it was the best he’d get and allowed himself a relieved smile.

It was a ploy to get her attention, admittedly. Not that Morgana was particularly vain or took a great deal of pride in her outward appearance – her sense of fashion was more tactical than tactile – though ploy or no, the sentiment was genuine.

When last he’d seen her, she was a fearsome sight to behold. A horror of untamed hatred and blind vengeance, rotting away before his very eyes. Not much further along than Freya. Her Black Death was certain, nothing and no one could seem to stem the corruption. Not even her Druid lover boy. When Merlin had brought her out of Kamaelot – dragged was more like, but he was kinder in his telling than she was – it hadn’t been in the hopes of salvation. Rather, containment. A safe space for her inevitable demise, far from the Pendragons...

And yet now she was none of that. A soft, black pelt of a mighty creature rested across her delicate shoulders and its lustrous hide wove around her genlte curves. Her ever-pale skin was sun kissed and warm across her rosy cheeks. The natural green of her eyes shone through the inlaid amber to glow a gentle hazel. Her night-black hair was smoothed and loose, falling in lazy waves at her sides.

“You really do look well,” he insisted in earnest, causing her smile to falter. She looked him up and down critically.

“And you look like shit."

He broke into a startled, deep-chested laugh that lit up her face. Then, raking a hand through his mess of untamed curls sheepishly, “Yeah... might have gotten a bit carried away last night.”

“A bit,” she parroted with a knowing lilt, a playful smirk drawing her lips up to one side. “That’s what you get for toying with him.”

Merlin’s cheeks flushed and his grin sharpened, “Yeah, apparently. So uhhh, exactly how much did you see?”

“Ugh, More than enough, believe me,” she replied with a heartfelt groan, turning to set the mortar on her hip and pour the glass bottle inside. Steam rose from the bowl as the mixture hissed. “Really, Merlin, were the theatrics absolutely necessary?”

“Oh, _ab_ solute _ly_ ,” he assured her, deadpanning as best he could manage with his shit eating grin. “I had to make it believable, ya know.”

“I see,” she drawled mockingly, reaching to pick a withered stalk from a hanging bushel and crumble it into her concoction. “And the flirting?”

“Wha-I wasn’t, no,” he sputtered on a laugh, “that wasn’t flirting.” Merlin chased away the flash of cerulean blue eyes and a firm jaw, broad shoulders and a tapered waist before a familiar, treacherous heat followed. Though his heartbeat staggered a bit.

“Sure wasn’t fighting.”

“I mean… it wasn’t _not_ fighting.” She gave him a pointed look, arching a brow, thoroughly unconvinced. “What? It was just a bit of fun, is all.”

“You really shouldn’t have ‘fun’ with a man you’re meant to kill, Merlin,” Morgana chided, and though her intentions were genuine and pure, her exaggeration on “fun” sent Merlin’s mind wandering until he landed in a familiar gutter.

He just grinned, partly at her and partly at the wicked image in his mind’s eyes. “Can’t be helped,” he shrugged, too caught up to notice Morgana scoff and roll her eyes to the ceiling.

“Disgusting.”

That brought him back, if only a little. “Oh, come on. Even you can admit he’s easy on the eyes.”

“I like my Courtier’s dead,” she retorted, unimpressed. Then paused, surveyed the space between some here and there, as if considering, “…though, I guess. He’s not the worst looking of the lot,” she conceded thoughtfully under her breath. Then she noticed as Merlin beamed incredulously, grinning all the more when she sneered at him.

She let a quiet moment pass before she played her next hand, her demeanor deceivingly light, “So you believe him then? You think he didn’t rig the payload?”

Merlin’s expression sobered some at that, mirth fading to something pensive, tentative, “Not sure, yet. I’d like to,” he admitted.

“So… what then? Its mere coincide a Peddler’s wares meant for one of Kamaelot’s most wanted just _happened_ to explode on the same night Prince Courtier shows up? Come now,” she gibed.

“No, it’s not that...” Merlin glanced down to the brunt fabric of his wrists, propping his elbows atop his knees and thumbing absentmindedly at the black streaks in contrast to his ivory skin. He could still taste the faint remnants of ash in his mouth. “The Gold was most definitely spiked.”

“Then what’s the problem here? Why is he still breathing?” she asked as casual and flippant as if asking after the weather, pulling a small vial from her robes to pour it into the mortar. Steam rose from the bowl. 

“I’m not sure they…,” Merlin took a moment to sort through the many an explanation he’d spent the entire dawn contemplating, but they were still just as jumbled and disjointed as ever.

Morgana wasted no time, however, “Oh don’t tell me, you think they didn’t know? Really?”

He worried at his lip, “It just doesn’t make sense. The Beast isn’t known as a mage, why go to such lengths for one criminal? And even if they did, why be there at all? It’s not like the Gold needed a remote detonation. They were far too close to have expected to survive unaided. If they knew, they were extremely careless.”

“Maybe they expected less fallout?” Morgana supplied dryly.

“No one is _that_ stupid. There was enough Gold there to have leveled half The Slums,” Merlin replied, glancing up as recognition dawned on her face. Her skin drained half a shade lighter and her hand froze on the pestle.

“Mordred—” her eyes were just a tad too wide for her face, too much white around her increasingly gold irises.

“Is just fine,” Merlin assured her tersely, calmly. “Arthur wouldn’t have made it out of there alive, otherwise. And he didn’t seem any worse for wear during our little tête-à-tête,” he added teasingly for good measure.

She let that settle over her for a moment, blinking down at the floor to calm the sudden rise and fall of her chest. After a long moment, one Merlin afforded her in silence, she forced a smile too sharp to be friendly and looked up, “Between you and my husband, this war will never end will it?”

Merlin just shrugged with a mocking grimace, “’Fraid not.”

She heaved a weary sigh as her good humor gave way to a firm certainty, fixing him with a firm stare as she calculated. “… You believe the explosion was meant for him.” It wasn’t an inquiry, nor was it an observation. It was a proclamation. Afterall, she was always so very skilled at reading him, sometimes he feared he was an open book to the entire world.

Even he could admit it sounded absurd said aloud, but for some inane reason, the words rung true in his ears. He shook his head slowly, as the same nagging thought clawing its way to the surface of his consciousness, “I think last night was a trap for us both.” He let the statement hang there, a dangerous implication waiting just beneath.

Neither of them dared address it though. They simply waited the appropriate, awkward stretch of time before moving on, with Morgana shifting to a casual, “When do you see Mordred next?”

“I’m headed to Cavalon after this,” he answered easily, careful to keep the little flip his stomach gave out of his voice lest it start another fight. “I should be there by tomorrow if I leave shortly. Hopefully he can shed some light on this whole mess.” She glanced towards the door and back at him, a wordless question. “Figured I owed you an explanation in person, first,” he admitted.

“Not the first time you’ve let him go.” She held him with that distant look, a definitive clarity in her words, “Won’t be the last, either.” It’d be a lie if Merlin said he was surprised, though a strange guilt still gnawed at him hearing said aloud.

Morgana set the mortal and pestle on the table, brought her fur cloak in closer on herself and moved towards the fire. She took a long pause there, staring down between it and Merlin, chewing on something before looking up, “I’ll find a way to manage without Freya.”

An olive branch.

Merlin gave her a nod and a quiet, “Thank you.”

She waited, expectantly.

“I’ll bring an to end this war,” he replied, words firm. It wasn’t a question. Never had been. “Just lemme find a way to do it that doesn’t get us all killed?”

“You mean doesn’t get _him_ killed?” it was a weak challenge, free from her previous venom.

“He… is a part of all,” Merlin replied carefully.

She regarded him with wordless consideration, gaze never wavering from his and yet slipping away, going vacant, as she drifted between him and some far-off place. Merlin often wondered where she went – jaw half slack and expression blank – whether it was a blessing or a curse to know the things she did; if all things were certain or if some things failed to pass; if she ever dared to challenge it or simply let it happen. But she didn’t care to speak of such things, only ever allowing him glimpses or vague assertions when he least expected, and so he rarely asked. 

“Get me some Gold in the meantime?” she insisted hopefully, and Merlin nodded with a chuckle. “I guess that’s fine then,” she accepted, reaching into a pocket to pull out and toss something at him. It was small and glistened in the sunlight it passed through.

Merlin caught it with ease, arched a brow at her, and examined the small bottle curiously.

“To help with that little papercut of yours,” she winked.

**~**

“Arthur?”

Said prince froze in the doorway, muttering a curse under his breath as his eyes fell shut. His hand lingered on the frame, gripping the aged wood where he’d been a mere inches from escape. The stairwell just beyond taunted him. A part of him considered making a break for it anyways, a very tempting thought, but he tempered it with a grimace.

“Uncle,” Arthur sighed in way of greeting, prying himself from the door to turn and face the man with an obligatory smile.

Agravaine de Bois, in all his untimely glory, stood at the far entrance of the sunlit hall, frozen mid-step. Eyes wide and mouth agape, he was clearly quite surprised by the sight before him. So much so it took him a beat for his words to return, the silence an uncharacteristically pleasant change in his company. Though fleeting.

“What are you doing on your feet?” he clucked with scolding concern as he rushed towards his nephew, arms open as if he’d need to catch the boy at any moment. Said youth had to force his eyes not to roll into the back of his head, throwing his weight on a leg in an indignant show of offense.

“I told you, I’m fine,” Arthur huffed, voice tinged with only slight impatience as he waved away his uncle’s pointless attempts to steady him.

“Shouldn’t the royal physician decide that?” Agravaine insisted, inspecting Arthur warily, no doubt expecting to find a missing limb or bloom of blood given the stricken look on his face. He looked him up and down, again and again, finding nothing but looking all the same. Head bobbing up and down like a mindless chicken.

It was nearly comical, an observation that softened Arthur’s response considerably given his fast-rising irritation, “I said, I’m fine _._ ”

“Gaius doesn’t seem to think so,” Agravaine countered sternly, recognizing Arthur’s temper despite his apparent amusement. The man’s back straightened and his shoulders broadened as he forsook his search of Arthur’s person, making himself big, as if trying to cast the prince in a paternal shadow. A familiar attempt, though it never did work. Besides, the lighting wasn’t the right angle. “I’ve been told he’s got you on bedrest for a week.”

Arthur just shook his head, looking fondly down the hall to envision the old man hobbling his way hurriedly, “It’s Gaius’ job to be paranoid. But I assure you, _I_ am _fine_ ,” Arthur enunciated slowly, deliberately, motioning down the length of his body in a clear display. Then his familial-afforded pleasantries were decidedly over, his voice dropping to a more royal-sounding octave, “I need to see Elyan, where is he?”

“He’s being treated in the infirmary,” Agravaine replied dutifully, but added with brazen condescendence, “so should you be.”

At that, Arthur’s faint smile fell and he leveled his uncle with a stern look, “I asked where he is, not what he was doing.” Arthur knew he was an imposing sight when he tried to be – a royal in full – he took after his father in that regard, though many doted that he looked more like his late mother with his fair hair and blue eyes. He was content with that balance, as it earned him both respect and pleasure when he desired it, using both to their fullest extent when it suited him.

However, Agravaine was of a similar upbringing and quite immune to the disapproval of their shared familial acquaintance, so he wilted only slightly under Arthur’s ire. Able to still protest, “You should be resting, Arthur. I believe you’re allowed a little down time given you just survive an attempt on your life last night.”

 _It wasn’t an attempt on my life_ , Arthur wanted to argue, but didn’t. He wanted to debate the well-meaning sentiment and subsequent misassumptions, but his throat was already hoarse from his debrief the night before – though it was more akin to a shouting match than anything else. His every word had been picked apart and ridiculed, bit by bit, until the entire night’s events had been reduced to fallacy.

Arthur knew it would do him no good to fight the matter further.

“Don’t need any,” he settled for instead, turning to go, ready to leave his uncle in his metaphorical dust and flee but was stopped by a firm hand on his shoulder. He just sighed and let himself be hauled back.

“Please, Arthur. Rest. I’m sure it would do you good.” Then, lower, “It is best you give this matter time to settle,” Agravaine warned, probably in a poor attempt at being cryptic, but Arthur knew the man possessed no semblance of subtly. He was referring to his father’s thundering rage the night before, no doubt. Arthur could still hear a faint ringing in his ears.

“We’re still on this, are we?”

“Yes, we’re still on this and will be for some time,” Agravaine looked back over his shoulder and then the prince’s, cautiously. Arthur breathed a chuckle through his nose, throwing a mocking glance out the window and then to the stone wall. “Your father is deeply displeased,” Agravaine whispered.

“When isn’t he?” It was an easy response, dismissive and humorous in an attempt to hide the shame Arthur felt. Thankfully, he wore the façade as easily as his armor.

“This is serious,” Agravaine used his hold to pull Arthur a fraction closer, “last night was a considerable blow as well as an insult to the crown.” Arthur’s stomach had only an instant to fall out as the guilt gripped him before his uncle added, “You lost a great deal of Gold, sire.”

The guilt vanished; his stomach recovered. Something in Arthur’s jaw jumped as he steeled himself against a flash of heat in his throat, inhaling deeply. “A great deal of Gold?” he parroted menacingly, boring his sudden glare into the wall just to the left of his uncle’s face, unable to meet his eye.

“Yes of course the Gold,” Agravaine replied fervently, his dark eyes wide with confusion, “what else?”

“That is your ‘considerable loss’? A bit of _Gold_? Not the eight Courtiers who gave their lives?” Arthur dragged his glare to meet his uncle’s wide blown gaze, half expecting the stones to break in his path he poured such burning ferocity into it. But it didn’t, and his uncle was able to hold his glare with far too much ease. When Arthur saw no indication of remorse or repentance in the man’s face, Arthur jerked his shoulder free and shoved him away.

Agravaine stumbled a step back, dumbfounded, but otherwise unaffected.

“What matter is Gold to us? It’s useless, replaceable. In fact, I’m glad it’s gone, less for our enemies,” Arthur hissed, taking a threatening step forward that his uncle didn’t retreat from but rather onced over carefully. “What I cannot replace are the brave souls who I led to their deaths last night, the lives I stole from their families. _That_ is a considerable loss, not a few vials of Gold.” Arthur’s voice bounced back off the white-washed stone with a bite, almost startling himself at the venom’s potency on the second take.

Though, rather than cower and shy away from Arthur’s wrath as the youth fully expected him to, Agravaine’s frown vanished along with the furrow in his brow and his expression turned to something stoic, impassive.

“That is for you and your conscience to reckon with,” he replied indifferently, lifting and dropping a shoulder casually, “I suggest you get use to it before you find yourself king.”

Now it was Arthur’s turn to step back, aghast, stunned into silence.

Agravaine took the opportunity to continue with a decided callousness, “Nothing the mages lust after is useless to us, particularly their Liquid Gold. Replaceable or not, it still requires a great deal of effort and resources to acquire that much contraband. Even more so to safely transport and launder it to be used in a sting operation—”

“Though not nearly as much to ensure its stability, clearly,” Arthur asserted hotly, words rushing out of him before he could think better of it.

“Arthur, honestly. Exploding Gold? Don’t be ridiculous,” Agravaine chastised in a shade only one or two lighter than disdain, running a hand through his greased back hair. “The product you were provided was legitimate. It was carefully inspected upon acquisition _and_ delivery. It did not spontaneously combust. The mages obviously brought a bomb to a gunfight.”

“Then why lie about it? The mage was convinced we brought the bomb. Prepared to kill me he was so convinced.”

“So you take the word of mages now?” Agravaine countered, but it was a challenge well worn the night before. Arthur let the insinuation roll off him with an aggravated groan. “Of course he was prepared to kill you, Arthur. He’s a mage. That’s what they do. No doubt that’s why he was there and not The Beast.”

For the first time in his recollection, Arthur regretted being so thorough in his debrief. His father and uncle had been quick to discredit and denounce nearly everything that came from his mouth, inventing all manner of explanation for his “misconceptions”. Between the two of them, Arthur felt like a raving madman, shouting nonsense at the sky.

Agravaine took note of Arthur’s skepticism. “Listen, son,” the usually-fond endearment somehow more condescending than comforting. Arthur rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “There’s no evidence to suggest that the Gold was swapped for a counterfeit and nothing to corroborate that your mage was anything special. I’m not sure what else to tell you.”

The diplomat in him begged for Arthur to stop, but he lost, as he often did, “A whole section of the Slums has been razed to the ground, what more evidence do you need?”

“Burnt bodies and charred rubble don’t have much to offer other than a bombing,” Agravaine shrugged.

“And what of the mage, hm? It took a blade to the chest like it was a flea bite.”

Agravaine looked Arthur over at that, the same hint of pity and amusement twitching up the corners of his pasty lips as the night before, “Maybe you’re not as well as you think, Arthur. Please, get some rest,” he added, patting the youth of the shoulder dispassionately as he stepped past him, leaving down the flight of stairs beyond.

Arthur stood there for only a moment, knuckles white at his sides and shoulders trembling as he took in deep, steadying breaths. He felt his pulse in his ears and his insides revolt. He had the sudden, powerful urge to hit something.

And then he was off, shoving it all away to focus on simply one foot in front of the other. Again and again, a fearsome march ever forward. He stomped through hall and passage, giving no pleasantries or niceties as guards and nobles alike jumped at his coming. No distractions. Nothing. Until he finally made his way to the infirmary, the massive oak doors towering at the end of the all too familiar hall. Arthur could already feel the antiseptics burning at his nose.

He threw open the great doors in true Pendragon-style, catching them by the handles before they could slap into the walls and disturb the wounded inside. One of Gaius’ aids, of the few Arthur cared to know the name of, started at Arthur’s entrance, looking up from a desk full of scattered papers and toppled books to stammer, “P-prince Arthur. You’re… up?”

“Connor. Where’s Gaius?” Arthur demanded curtly, striding forward into the room even as the aid opened his mouth to protest.

“He’s, um, out sire. Though I’m sure—”

“Good,” he replied, waving his hand dismissively to stop the boy in his tracks as he rounded the desk. “As you were.”

Honestly, the sight of wounded soldiers being nursed to health and the overwhelming stench of medicinal concoctions and cleaning solutions should have made Arthur sick to his stomach. But there was something strangely comforting about the dreary ward. Be it his own familiarity with the place or the fact that it’d saved his life more times than he could count, he could never tell.

To be sure, Arthur had spent nearly as many nights in one of the neatly made, pristine white, threadbare cots as he did his own four-posted bed. The long, symmetrical lines of gurneys and medical stations ran along either side of the oblong room. The far wall was a row of tall, lancet windows with crystalline tracery Arthur had spent countless days looking out. The invading light bounced off the medical equipment and white-washed walls sharply, bringing the room into a nearly blinding haze of warm sunlight and off-white glow.

At the end of the room, there was a single cot with the privacy drapes drawn closed. From within it, Arthur could just make out the broken syllables of a hushed conversation.

He stormed his way over, suspicions confirmed before throwing back the curtain with a too-loud, “Aredian,” causing said man to turn from Elyan’s bedside with only slight interest. As always, the sight of him made Arthur’s skin crawl. Fine blonde hair slicked back over a balding head, thick black robes pulled over concealed weapons and armored plating – ever ready for a hunt – and narrowed, blue-green eyes catching the light just right to reflect gold.

 _Oh_ , how he hated such eyes… 

“Your Highness,” the towering man replied cordially, tipping his head at him, though the formality was as empty as his dead eyed stare. Arthur’s insides twisted at the sight. The hard edge in Aredian’s gaze was equal parts disgust and indifference. The man made it no secret he did not care for Arthur – either as an aspiring ruler or a seasoned warrior. Just as Arthur made it no secret that mages, no matter their loyalties or intentions towards their own species, couldn't be trusted. But, despite Arthur’s best efforts to persuade his father otherwise, Aredian was one mage who was allowed to walk free, even through the palace halls.

“I thought I told you Elyan was to be left undisturbed,” Arthur glanced to said soldier, noting the way his eyeids sagged over dark rings and beads of sweat dotted his clammy forehead. Even his tawny complexion was just a shade or two paler than it ought to be.

“I believe you did, sire—” Aredian began dryly, repressing obvious annoyance.

“Then what’s wrong with this picture?”

“Though after stressing the importance of my investigation to your Lord Father, the King, he gave me leave to question whomever I see fit in the hunt for your mystery mage,” the aged mage retorted sharply with a flash of bright amber. The sight made Arthur’s stomach twist on itself. Never, would he get used to such eyes. Certainly not in the palace of all places.

“Of course, the King knows best,” Arthur amended carefully, well aware Aredian knew of his precarious footing with said king, “but how about you two continue this conversation tomorrow? The man clearly needs his rest,” he insisted, motioning towards Elyan just as his medical equipment beeped furiously and a fit of coughs overtook him. Arthur tried not to let his eyes linger on the frailty of Elyan’s movements.

“I’m afraid there’s no time to waste,” Aredian countered easily, taking a deep breath, “for every hour counts in the war against sorcery. Unchecked—”

“It spreads like a disease. Yes, yes. I remember,” Arthur finished, rolling his gaze off to the side with a frustrated sigh. “Surely you can question another Courtier in the meantime, Magehunter. Elyan has already given his report, you can refer to that if you have questions. Right now, he needs to recover.”

“Your Highness, as I’ve said—”

“Elyan will still be here in the morning,” Arthur interjected sternly, giving the man a hollowed smile, “you may leave us now.” He reached behind him to pull aside the curtains in mock chivalry.

Aredian bristled in place, clearly struggling with words unspoken for a beat, before he stalked out, brushing past Arthur with a shove and consequential, “beg your pardon.” Arthur watched him go reservedly, standing guard at the foot of the bed until the Magehunter threw one last glance over his shoulder on his way out of the infirmary. He slammed the doors shut with a bang, causing a few sleeping patients to stir groggily.

“Thanks for that,” Elyan grumbled weakly after the silence settled. “I thought he’d never leave.”

“Sorry I wasn’t here sooner,” Arthur replied, drawing closed the curtains to them move Elyan’s side. He took a moment to survey the man.

The sheets were drawn high up his chest, but even the small swaths of skin to be seen were riddled with angry cuts and vicious burns. Large stretches of bandages rose up his throat and forearms, tubes and wires protruding from them to tangle every which way until they led into the machinery at his side. There, a tiny screen beeped a steady beat as a pulse line jumped from left to right. It wasn’t the worst Arthur had ever seen him, though it was certainly the poorest. Elyan’s ruined face was milk white, and his shoulders trembled with the strength it took to move himself up the bed.

“How you holding up?”

“I’ll live,” Elyan grunted as he situated himself against his propped pillow. When he eased back down, he gave a tired sigh that caught on a wince and a grimace. Arthur rubbed awkwardly at the nape of his neck, suddenly very aware of his own state.

As if sensing the shift, Elyan looked Arthur over, “You look pretty good, though. Considering,” he added, spotting the strange path Arthur’s arm took down back to his side, avoiding the tender points where his muscles still could not bend.

“Apparently the suit took the brunt of the beating,” was Arthur’s response, quick and rehearsed. “I was lucky.”

“I’ll say…,” Elyan mussed, words drifting off as he considered something. But Arthur didn’t care for the silence. Quickly following it up with a halfhearted: 

“What was Aredian bothering you about?”

“What do you think?” the young Courtier chuckled. “Trying to poke holes in everything I said about the mage.”

At that, Arthur scoffed a laugh, crossing his arms over his chest with only slight difficulty, “Yeah, him and everyone else it seems.”

Again, Elyan looked Arthur over none too subtly, clearly struggling with something. It seemed to dance on the tip of his tongue before he swallowed thickly against it. “He was a pretty weird mage, I guess. Makes sense.”

“Weird?” Arthur echoed curiously, his stomach giving a little flip at something he couldn’t quite place. Whatever it was, Arthur knew it to be an unsettling thing. 

“Yeah, you know. Weird,” Elyan tried again, as if somehow his change in tone, slowed and enunciated, would be explanation enough. Arthur’s arched brow made it clear it wasn’t.

“Weird how?” Arthur insisted, though to what end he wasn’t sure, the answer still seemed important.

Elyan just sighed, glancing to the change of beeping in his medical equipment. It was a long pause before he returned cautiously to Arthur’s unwavering gaze, his lips pressed into a firm line, “I heard you caught up to him last night after… the explosion.”

Arthur shifted his weight uncomfortably at the change in conversation, looking away with sudden interest in anything but Elyan, “Yeah.” Curt, defensive, Arthur realized a second too late. He made a mental note to address that later, lest it come up again in conversation with someone more… dangerous. _Dangerous_? Arthur mulled over the word for a beat, contemplating, but yes. Dangerous fit.

“Heard it got away, too.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed as he inspected the drip bag next to him, pretending to read over the scrawled label as he tried to follow Elyan’s train of thought. “Mmh,” he hummed.

“Alive,” Elyan added, as if that detail were important to note.

Arthur knew it was when his throat tightened hotly around his response, “That’s correct.”

“…And, you got away, too. Like that,” he nodded over Arthur’s general appearance, catching his eye. Elyan had always been a man of few words, especially since the death of his father, but the few he did say had a way of speaking volumes. Arthur had the odd sense there wasn’t enough space between them for the weight of the words that came next, “That’s weird, isn’t it?”

Arthur took a slow inhale, careful to keep it steady despite the sporadic pounding in his chest, “I guess it is.”

Elyan just held Arthur’s gaze there, but he couldn’t bear it. He looked away at his feet, tapping the battered heel against the worn toe of the other as the silence became deafening. “Look, Elyan, I’m glad to see you’re doing alright, I’ll just—,” he made to step away, eyes downcast when Elyan started, causing the machines to whine and the bed to jerk with his immediate flinch.

“Arth— _ow_ —wait,” he struggled, bracing a hand on his knee as he straightened himself to screw his eyes shut up and the ceiling and wait for something to pass. Arthur could see the wave of it wash over him, leaving the man in limp relief afterwards. It took him some time to catch his breath, “There’s something I wanted… to tell you.”

“Of course,” Arthur nodded dutifully, planting himself by the rickety bedrail. “Anything,” he added with a sudden twinge of guilt as he noted the faded stains of blood creeping out beneath Elyan’s slipping sheets. 

Elyan recovered slowly, meeting Arthur’s eye sheepishly, nervously, the flush of color that’d returned to his face once again gone. Arthur fought to repress a growing swell of trepidation. “There’s… something I left out of my report,” he struggled to say, reminiscent of a small child caught in a fib. “Something,” his breathing hitched and the machine beeped, “I think Aredian knows is missing. Something he’s after.”

At that, Arthur’s head inclined towards him, interest and concern piqued at once despite his better judgement.

Elyan sat himself up as much as he could, leaning forward to glance worriedly at the curtain’s seam beyond Arthur. When he was satisfied with what he found there, he wet his dry, cracked lips and whispered lowly, almost too low for Arthur to hear, “I think the mage… did something to the explosion.” Arthur felt the confusion wrench his features just as forcefully as it did his gut, pulling back to square Elyan with his unspoken questions and Elyan hurried to hiss out, “I think he tried to s-stop it or something?”

For a moment, Arthur had the irrational urge to bolt, to flee from the infirmary and find sanctuary somewhere – anywhere else. As if those words heralded something foreboding, something treacherous and perilous. But rather than run, a dangerous curiosity spurred him forward as he took a step closer, head ducked and voice low, “What do you mean? Stop how?”

Again, Elyan had to lick at his chapped lips, mouth smacking against a dryness in his throat, “He seemed… surprised by it? Adreian’s been asking me about the bomb, how big and what it looked like, but I– I never saw one. I said as much in my report but, the mage just… he just _touched_ the Gold. A-and then he, well it looked like he tried to,” he searched for the words, eyes frantic, “hug it?”

Arthur’s twisted stomach threatened to crawl its way up his chest. He wanted to interject logic and reasoning to the nonsense that was spilling from his clearly damaged comrade, but for fear of hypocrisy he bit it back. In truth, he wasn’t sure how much logic _could_ be applied to the night’s events. Most especially on behalf of the mage…

“And, when I came to he was, just there. Just _standing_ there,” then Elyan’s gaze seemed to slip away, seeing somewhere else in place of Arthur. He could almost see the flames dancing in his dark irises. “There was still fire and… but, not around—that is, we were…”

Arthur straightened slowly but Elyan lurched forward, grabbing at Arthur’s wrist at the noisy protest of his medical station, grip trembling and voice tremulous, “please, Arthur, I—” but he was stilled to silence as Arthur put a hand over his, hold firm and expression flat.

“Have you shared this with anyone else?” Arthur asked in a hushed whisper. Hearing Connor’s soft footsteps echo from nearby as he tended to his charges.

Elyan shook his head feebly, suddenly looking very small in his too-big cot.

“Good. Keep this to yourself. If anyone comes around asking questions you don’t know. Didn’t see. Can’t remember. Understood?”

“Understood,” he nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, glad to see you survived all that dialogue. It might have gotten to be a bit much towards the end, but I had a lot of stage setting to do and I think this helped get us there in the most enjoyable way possible! Please let me know what you think, say hi, leave a kudos. Anything! I have to get this fic written for the sake of my own sanity, but hearing feedback that people actually like it is a huge confidence booster!
> 
> See ya next chapter, hopefully :)


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